Nurse Frankenstein
by makingamockery
Summary: Creative response to Frankenstein for my Great Ideas 1000 class, final project. rr.


My name is Abigail Dwyer and I am a nurse. Or, rather, I was a nurse. My husband was a prison warden, and I often took care of the county jail's inhabitants when they needed it. I had done it many times before, and expected to do it many times again, when they brought the raving Mr. Frankenstein into cell number three and charged me with his care.

* * *

I knew he was guilty as soon as they showed him to me. He was gibbering and delirious but one statement rang loud and clear: "I've killed them!" he shouted, again and again. No one, I thought, with a clear conscience could possibly be rendered so ill. He often raved of having created a monster, a _creature_ he called it, but I think that he spoke of himself, a creature hungry for the lives of innocents.

Occasionally, though, in the weeks I sat by his bedside and nursed him Mr. Frankenstein would seem to reach a plateau of sanity. It never lasted for very long; after awhile I got used to the sudden change in his manner. "Are you better now, Sir?" I would ask. Once, when this occurred, he answered me and we spoke for some time.

"Not better, no. Only I'm too tired today to remember so much of the past." He replied. He had a lovely demeanor, really. If he hadn't been a liar and a murderer I could have thought very highly of him. "What day is it?"

"The twenty third," I replied. When he said nothing I added, "That gentleman you murdered, he's being buried today." He looked confused for a moment.

"Clerval?"

"Clerval? Oh, yes, Henry Clerval, that's what they said his name is." I waited, expecting him to begin his fits again. When he didn't I asked, "Did you kill him?" His manner had thrown me off. I wasn't so sure any more.

"I wish I could say that I hadn't, for I created he who did; but, no. I can't claim power over what I have created; I can claim only regret for the wild madness which possessed me with such ambition. No, the murder was not my doing, but I am the reason it took place." As this didn't make any sense at all to me, I stayed quiet, I let him speak. "How long until I can leave this place?"

"Leave?" I answered, "There's only one way you'll be leaving here sir, and that's with a length of twine about your neck." I thought it was a smart comment, I still do, but I checked myself in our later conversations as this remark threw him into another fit. As quickly as the conversation began I was placed suddenly back into my role of silent nurse to a raving killer.

* * *

That night was the first of my premonitions, though at the time I believed them to be just nightmares, brought on by bad beef or curdled cream. In the dream I could feel his hands, cold as death, sliding across my shoulders until they reached my throat. There they paused, as if he were uncertain, but then they tightened mercilessly. They tightened with the same crazed madness that fuelled his illness and rendered him unintelligible. My hands tore at his wrists, searching for a weakness, frantic for air. My head felt as though it would burst, my eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets, the image of his maddened face printed permanently on their lenses. It was only at the moment of death, when darkness appeared at the edges of my vision that I would awaken, dripping with sweat.

* * *

In the mornings following these dreams I could not be roused, nothing could bring me from my terror. Death was coming for me, I could feel it, and I was not strong enough to find my peace with it, or even ask why.

During these illnesses another nurse, young Catherine, took my place but always I knew that eventually I would have to return to that cell and face my destiny.

One day he awoke from his delusions and something was different. "Are you better now, Sir?" I asked once more, expecting the usual response.

"I believe I am," he said, shocking me soundly, and then continued, "But if it be all true, if indeed I do not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror."

"For that matter," I replied, hiding my terror behind a ridged façade, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for a fancy it will go hard with you; but you will be hung when the next sessions come on." I paused and then, afraid he would react again the same way he had in the past I hurried on, "However, that's none of my business, I am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience, it were well if every body did the same."

He turned from me then, hurt I suppose by my unfeeling nature, but from that day forward he seemed saner, more competent; yet it wasn't until Mr. Kirwin, a dear friend of mine, came to speak with him that he seemed well (Shelley, 123).

* * *

Weeks went by and M. Frankenstein gained strength; as his ravings stopped, so too did my nightmares, allowing me a peace of mind that I hadn't expected. I was able to separate myself from my exertions, to employ myself with the cool and calm demeanour that had embodied my work for years before meeting this strange creature. I even consented to accompany him to the county-town, where his trial was to be held. During the trial itself I suffered living torture; I knew him to be guilty, I had heard his confessions with my own good ears, and yet I said nothing. I was absent when the deed was committed, I told myself rationally. Any speech on my part would be considered the ravings of a woman speaking above her station and could only harm both myself and my husband's position. When he was declared innocent I could not believe it; I thought that surely the evidence would speak for itself, justice should have been granted to one such as him, but I kept these thoughts to myself. Voiced, they could not have saved me anyway.

* * *

That night was my first night free of any nursely duties and so I stayed in my room, combed and braided my hair, and lay down upon my bed for a full night of rest. I didn't hear the creak of the door, or the scuff of his slippered foot against the floor. I wasn't disturbed by the faint light of his candle or the sound of his anxious breathing. It wasn't until his hands, cold as death, hesitated just before reaching my throat that I awoke; and by then it was too late. 


End file.
